Pandora's Teachings
by the de-anoned anon
Summary: xXx "...we're putting humans, our own people, in harm's way; I don't want to end the world in a bomb, why can't you see that? Can't you see that they're scared?.." xXx De-anon from kink meme.


**_Prompt_**: _I've had this stuck in my head for a while now..._

_The Cold War is at its worst and Russia has convinced himself that he completely hates America. Whatever friendship or warm feelings they used to have in the past is dead, he hates everything about America and would be happier if he was dead. ...at least that's what Russia tells himself. So then one day the perfect opportunity arises to kill America. He has no reason not to, it's the perfect chance to finally kill him, there's no way America can fight back or stop him...but when it finally comes down to that last crucial moment, Russia can't make himself go through with it. He just...can't._

_How Russia feels about this, what happens next and how America reacts is all up to filler!anon._

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><p>Perhaps things were supposed to be this way. No matter how hard he tried and tried and <em>tried for the sake of others<em>, he was always seen as the bad guy that hurt people for no apparent reason.

Maybe he was meant to be an empty wasteland of ice and death.

But whatever reason it was, even if he couldn't figure it out himself, the Soviet Union _existed_, and he was the one that they thought of when those little words were uttered.

Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.

Oh, why that's Russia. He's the center and harbinger of _Communism_. Don't you just hate him?

And maybe that was never said out loud, but Russia knew. He knew that they would think it, and he _couldn't care less_. It was easier to take it in stride and rebuttal with his own anger and hatred against everything _he_ stood for. Because Communism wasn't _filthy_ and _disgusting_; it just wasn't what America seemed to like.

But that in itself was the thing that made Russia _cringe_. How whenever America seemed to hate something, the rest of the world went along with him.

Russia understood that as well. America was a powerful ally. Going against him could prove to be deleterious to one's economy, status, anything. America was strong, America was wealthy, and America was a _superpower_.

The Soviet Union was a superpower as well. And Russia was the leader, just as America led his pitiful group that they called NATO.

So Russia made the Warsaw Pact.

And America was absolutely _livid_.

Even now, as Russia stared America down, forcing him into the ground without actually pushing him, America's glare said more than shallow hatred.

_What you do, it's wrong. It's wrong, and you know it. Why don't you listen to me? Communism won't work, Russia. It won't, it can't, so stop it. Stop making others do it as well, I know you can see them and how they don't like it. Change, you need to change, you're doing a bad thing, I won't beg, but just change. We're putting humans, our own people, in harm's way; I don't want to end the world in a bomb, why can't you see that? Can't you see that they're scared? Nobody wants to die in a nuclear explosion, stop, just stop doing this-_

America was bleeding, but not broken. America was on his knees, clutching his side because his ribs were shattered, but he wasn't broken. And America was smiling up at Russia, daring him to end it all, but he still wasn't broken.

It was December 30 that day.

America's smile hurt to look at.

"Happy birthday, Ivan."

There was a sickening crunch as his pipe slammed into America's shoulder. Again. And again. His shoulder, his leg, his arms, everywhere he could hit until it seemed as if America had lost consciousness.

Russia panted heavily and took a step back. Blood was everywhere, but it always was, so he didn't mind, but it was _everywhere_.

And then, America coughed. He pushed himself up on his good arm, holding his left hand against his chest like a wounded dog, and he laughed. Nothing insane, he wasn't hysterical, it was just _so goddamn funny_. Because…because…

"Why haven't you killed me yet? Do it. You're so close, Ivan, just _do it_." America wheezed slightly and more blood fell past his lips and splattered onto the ground.

Do it. He would do it. He would end this war, come out as the victor, and he would _do it_.

He raised his pipe high above his head again and made as if to swing it down in one crushing blow-

Russia made the fatal mistake of looking at America's eyes.

They weren't sad or scared or hopeless, but still just as energetic and full of life as they had been when America was a young child. When Russia had first traversed onto those fertile lands and met the child that was so happy and warm and unafraid of Russia. And Russia had liked that.

He had liked the way America would talk the animals he saw or the things he did, and how America would try so very hard to make Ivan laugh instead of just smiling, or how America would climb up his long coat and rest on his shoulders so he was tall, _I'm tall like a mountain, Ivan!_

"_Yes, you are. If I raised you up even more, you could reach the sun."_

"_Really? You think I could?" Alfred's eyes were so blue and so perfect. _

"_Let's find out, shall we?" So he hoisted Alfred up into the air, and Alfred was laughing and so ecstatic and he lifted his arms up to the sky and tried so hard to reach the sun like Ivan had said he could._

America. He wasn't a child anymore, but fully grown and he didn't love Russia like he used to, they had nothing anymore but hatred.

Russia wondered if he remembered his childhood, and how much he loved it when Russia came to visit him. He wondered if America's life would flash before his eyes like they said happened when one was about to die. He wondered if America would still hate him, even when he was gone. He wondered if America really did remember everything that he and Russia went through together and what they did, what they said to each other.

The pipe slid out from his hands and landed on the ground, clanking loudly like a final gunshot. He wanted to, it was so _easy_ and America had practically ordered him to do it, but his arms felt like they were filled with lead and they dragged him down until he was on his knees as well – _but America was still shorter, he would never be as tall as Russia_ – and America had this look that Russia couldn't read, but he didn't have to.

There would be no crying. No tears would fall; he was the _Soviet Union_. But maybe, just as Ivan, he could let himself have this one moment of vulnerability.

And maybe, just maybe, America felt the same thing, except it wasn't America but _Alfred_, kind and hopeful and perhaps the only person left who sincerely cared for Ivan. So he ignored the pain as _Alfred_ and opened his arms as wide as they could go and Ivan fell forward into that warmth and comfort and familiarity, not caring if he got blood all over him, it was better than facing reality when he was always _swimming in blood_. Alfred murmured softly and stroked his tired fingers through Ivan's hair and pretended like he couldn't hear the muffled sobs and pleas in indecipherable Russian.

America and Russia weren't friends. They weren't comrades or companions or allies; they purposefully forgot everything that didn't have to do with missiles and government policies and wars.

But Alfred and Ivan still had some form of power over America and Russia. A small, seemingly miniscule power, but it was there and it was humane. And it was important.

The next time America and Russia saw each other, months after the incident, they didn't speak about what had happened. They carried on with their lives, throwing insults at each other behind barbed wire and threats of destruction.

Ivan yearned to reach out and feel Alfred in his arms again, but Russia did not.

Alfred knew that one day they wouldn't see the other with only hatred standing between them, but America refused to acknowledge that fact.

One day. One day was far off in the future, but they could be patient.

But patience only lasted for so long.

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><p><strong>AN: **Eurgh. My writing style changes...in less than a thousand words. OTL


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